


You Got No Time To Lose

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2017 [60]
Category: Clan Mitchell - Fandom, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: American Civil War, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 22:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "any, any, 5 Seconds of Summer."Rodney McKay gets about five seconds of summer vacation before Grandma McKay ships him off to America to chaperone Jeannie while she’s touring Civil War sites with her crush Kaleb-with-aK, and when he escapes from the heat and noise and chaos of reenactments at Gettysburg, he meets John Sheppard.





	You Got No Time To Lose

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Bru for her excellent beta work, and whose Civil War reenactment photos were invaluable inspiration.
> 
> Title from the song The General by The Dispatch.
> 
> Also written for the Historical War AU challenge for the What If AU Challenge.

Rodney got approximately five seconds of summer vacation before his grandmother sent his world crashing down around his ears.

“We’re going to America to do _what?”_ They were sitting in the den of Grandma McKay’s house celebrating the end of the last day of the school semester with bannocks and tea, because Grandma McKay was nothing if not traditional.

“Watch some Civil War reenactments.” Grandma McKay patted his knee patronizingly. “It’ll be good for you to get out and breathe some fresh air and learn about history.”

“American history isn’t _our_ history,” Rodney protested. “And - and I had plans to get plenty of fresh air!”

Jeannie slewed him a look. “Sticking your head out the basement window for a breather once in a while does not count as getting out and getting _fresh air.”_

Rodney had plans. Big plans. He was going to change the world. The university was less crowded over the summer, and he’d have almost free run of the entire basement lab. He was close to a breakthrough on stable wormhole technology, he was sure of it. And then he realized, and he slewed a look right back at Jeannie. “Since when do you care about history? You said you planned on majoring in physics in the fall.”

Jeannie lifted her chin defiantly. “I think it’ll be an excellent educational opportunity,” she began, but Rodney recognized the telltale rise of color in her cheeks.

“A _boy,”_ he said. “This has to do with a boy, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Jeannie said, but Rodney knew.

“It’s that tall, lanky oaf with the curly dark hair.” Rodney made a shuffling gesture at his own hair for emphasis. “What’s his name...Calvin!”

“Kaleb,” Jeannie muttered.

“Right. Kaleb-with-a-K. I thought he was an English major.”

“He likes history, especially the American Civil War,” Jeannie said, all pretense abandoned, because when Rodney was right (which was all the time) he was _right._

Rodney turned to Grandma McKay. “I don’t like history, and I don’t like Kaleb-with-a-K.”

Grandma McKay patted his knee again. “Jeannie can’t go alone, dear. You’re her big brother.” And she stood up and headed for the kitchen, ostensibly to refill the plate of bannocks.

“Jeannie can build a nuclear device alone,” Rodney protested. “Why does she need me?”

But two weeks later he was trailing along behind a group of fluffy English and History majors, damp and sweating in the humid Pennsylvanian heat, along the edge of the Gettysburg battlefield where losers with _no lives_ were dressed up as dead Confederate and Union soldiers and reenacting a battle from a stupid, meaningless war.

Rodney and Jeannie were Canadian. Their country had figured out slavery was a stupid idea without needing a war, thanks.

Jeannie trailed along behind Kaleb Miller, who was a year older than Jeannie but a year younger than Rodney. She smiled up at him and hung onto his every word and acted like - well, not a girl who was slated to change the universe as humanity knew it, with her genius (second only to Rodney’s, of course). She was acting like a... _girl._ With a crush. Girls never had crushes on Rodney (he had more important things to do with his time than fend off crushes anyway), but he knew what girls with crushes looked like. Sighing. Giggling. Fluttering their eyelashes. He’d thought Jeannie, genius she was, was above all that, but - no.

The battlefield was broad and rolling, green, bisected by a dirt road and a fence and dotted with cannons and bronze memorial statues. Both halves of the field were littered with rows upon rows of camp tents. Some of the English majors made jokes - or possible serious etymological comments - about the origin of the term _campy_ and the phrase _as camp as a row of tents._ Soldiers in various uniforms - lacking a serious amount of uniformity (different shades of blue, different shades of gray, differing gear, different hats) - roamed along both halves of the field. There were groups of them clustered around cannons, and also officers on horses.

The officers were lined along the flimsy rope barrier talking to groups of tourists who were out and about to watch the reenactment. Pickett’s Charge, or so the story went.

Rodney lingered at the back of the group while Jeannie encouraged Kaleb-with-a-K to speak to a man who was impersonating an actual dead Union officer. He knew the man’s history backward and forward, from his childhood and personal life to his training and military career to his death.

“Yes, he dies today,” the man said. “So in the charge I’ll get out there, and when the time comes, I’ll play dead like I’m supposed to.”

Jeannie spoke up, asked if the other reenactors played the parts of real people.

The Union officer nodded. “Yeah, wherever possible. Records aren’t as complete as we’d like, so where numbers fall short of known soldiers, volunteers can step in and fill in the ranks. Some of them are just kind of - blanks. Others go all out, create an era-appropriate persona.”

“How did you pick a persona?” Kaleb asked.

“He’s one of my ancestors, actually,” the man said proudly.

Rodney huffed. So this level of patheticness ran in the family.

Jeannie kicked him in the ankle.

Rodney rolled his eyes but resolved to keep his loud angry breathing (Jeannie’s description) to a minimum. He looked up and, okay, the officer was actually kind of attractive. Not much older than Rodney, only a couple of years, with bright blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a dimpled smile.

“What about the Rebels?” Rodney asked.

The officer turned to look at him. “Pardon?”

“Outside of your persona - do you know any of the Rebels?”

The officer nodded. “Yeah, absolutely. One of my roommates is playing a Confederate soldier on the far side of the battlefield. He’s Southern, from North Carolina, and his ancestors fought for the South. Comes from a long line of military service.”

“Does he fly a Confederate flag in your room?” Rodney pressed.

Jeannie kicked him in the ankle again.

The officer laughed. “No. He isn’t hoping the South will rise again. But he respects history and isn’t going to sugarcoat it. And hey, they fought for what they believed in, which isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

“Unless what they believed was stupid,” Rodney muttered.

Jeannie stomped on his foot.

The officer frowned. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Can you repeat it?” He actually leaned in.

Jeannie said, “What about your weapons?”

“Oh, well, this saber here was standard issue for an officer. There was still close-quarters combat, and it was more useful than a rifle from horseback, although I do have this pistol.”

Weapons. Oh joy.

Rodney couldn’t take it anymore. He glanced at his watch. There were hours yet till they would be done watching the reenactment. The battle itself had lasted for three days. The big thing people wanted to see was Pickett’s Charge. How long till that happened? Rodney didn’t even care.

There was a string band sawing away at instruments (torturing them, more like), and between the sounds from the horses, the blast of weapons being mock-fired (yes smoke and explosions, no actual ammo), cannons, chatter, and music, Rodney’s head was aching. Whatever Jeannie and Kaleb-with-a-K and their free-spirited, open-minded friends had said, none of them had expressed any desire to go visit the Confederate side of things.

Not that Rodney wanted to listen to a bunch of desperate, pathetic soldier-wannabes spout centuries-old ignorance and bigotry either, but -

But halfway between the two armies’ lines looked pretty empty. Deserted. Quiet.

So Rodney walked away from the group, through the rolling grass, farther and farther from the din of tourists and faux-soldiers and bad music.

The older Rodney got, the darker his hair got, but he was still lighter-complected, and being out in the sun for extended periods of time was bound to lead to sunburn. He spotted a little stand of trees - this end of the battlefield was a lot more tree-filled than he’d first thought - and veered toward it. Shade. Shelter. Safety.

Rodney stepped under the broad boughs of a tall, old, wide-trunked tree and heaved a sigh of relief.

Something slammed into him, knocking him into the tree.

Rodney cried out in pain and alarm - and a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Who are you?”

The boy pinning him to the tree was the same age as Rodney. Or was he? He had bright eyes of some indiscernible color - gray? Hazel? Brown? Blue? Green? He was a little taller than Rodney, which was just unfair. And he was wearing one of those little gray Confederate soldier caps.

Rodney tried to say, _I’m a normal person, unlike you,_ only the boy’s hand was still over his mouth, and the words came out muffled.

The boy trapped Rodney against the tree, forearm across his collarbones, but he eased his hand away from Rodney’s mouth.

“Are you friend or foe? Your clothing is - unusual.” The boy spoke in a harsh whisper, flicking his gaze over Rodney, not with the derision or amusement Rodney usually encountered, just genuine curiosity.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, to you in-character reenactors I’m ‘naked’ in my normal clothes.” His hands were free and he made air quotes.

The boy drew back. “Naked?” And he looked Rodney up and down again. “You are only in your shirtsleeves - so curiously short - but you are otherwise dressed.” He drew back a little further. “I’m not trying to be indecent with you, but - you’re a Yank, aren’t you? With the way you talk.”

“A Yank?” Rodney spluttered. “I’m not even American - I’m Canadian.” He reached out, feeling uncharacteristically brave, and flicked the bill of the boy’s gray cap. “Obviously you’re a Rebel.”

The boy tugged the cap off, looked away, scrubbed a hand through his hair. Which was short and spiky but looked soft. “I’m a Sheppard and a Virginian, through-and-through. Of course I fight for the South.” He had a faint Southern drawl.

“Well, _Sheppard,_ I’m a McKay and a Canadian, and I refuse to fight for anyone.” Rodney lifted his chin, studied the boy opposite. He was handsome, with high cheekbones and curiously pointed ears. Not conventionally handsome, but if he’d passed Rodney in the hallway at school, Rodney would definitely have looked twice.

This kid who called himself Sheppard - his real name? Or the name of the persona he’d assumed? Likely the latter - had gone all-out for his dress-up game. His uniform looked lived-in in a way none of the others did. The buttons on the jacket were no longer shiny, and there were stains at the collar and cuffs of the sleeves.  The leather of his belt was aged, cracked in places.

Rodney shook himself out. No way was he going to be impressed with one of these pretend players who’d gone so totally all-out about nothing useful. “And I refuse to play stupid games.”

Sheppard narrowed his eyes. “This war is no _game,”_ he spat.

“How old are you?” Rodney looked him up and down. “Because I’m eighteen and you don’t look a day older than me.”

“I’m sixteen, which is plenty old enough.”

Rodney huffed. “To go to war? It’s hardly old enough to drive.”

Sheppard looked offended at first, but then he looked confused and wary. “To drive what?”

Right. The guy was deep in-character. Which Rodney could respect, intellectually, having been an award-winning actor himself (before he realized that being an actor would lead to adulthood starvation and that science had more substance, more social worth, and pretending to be someone else wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, because people expected Rodney to be someone else every day).

He wore his character in his entire body - not just in his clothes, but in the tense set of his shoulders, the way he kept glancing in the direction of the rest of the Confederate camp, the way he was hyper-alert.

“Never mind,” Rodney said. “Canadian thing.”

“If you say so.” Sheppard considered Rodney some more. “How do I know you’re not a Billy spy?”

It took Rodney a moment to remember. _Johnny_ was a Rebel, so _Billy_ was a Union soldier. “Yes, obviously I am, because you, Johnny Rebel little guy, are a super important part of Rebel military strategies.”

Sheppard pressed his lips into a thin line, but then nodded. “Fair point. Why are you here?” He gestured to the little copse of trees, and Rodney saw that Sheppard had a bedroll propped up against a tree, along with a massive rifle outfitted with a bayonet. He was camping here. Why so far from the rest of the Confederate Army?

Rodney shrugged. “It’s hot and noisy out there. I wanted some quiet, and some shade. What are _you_ doing here?”

“How do I know you’re not a Confederate spy?” Sheppard pressed, and the energy in his performance was impressive, because his paranoia was catching.

“Because you’re not an idiot,” Rodney said, “and you know that the whole notion that black people aren’t human is moronic, and using someone’s skin color to justify poor treatment of them is pure bullshit.”

“Bullshit,” Sheppard echoed warily.

Rodney rolled his eyes again. “Yes - hogwash, nonsense, humbug.”

Sheppard tested the word again, his face lit with amusement, and he really was unfairly good-looking. “I’ve never heard that before. Is it Canadian?”

Rodney didn’t know how long the word had been part of common parlance. That Sheppard knew it - and had taken the time to research it for this role - was either impressive or uncanny. Maybe Sheppard just had a phenomenal memory and a passion for etymological trivia.

“Yes,” Rodney said. “It’s Canadian.”

Sheppard stepped back, finally let Rodney away from the tree. He knelt beside his bedroll, scooped up his canteen, drank from it. “You think the whole notion of slave-owning is _bullshit,_ then.”

“Yes. And so does anyone with half a brain.”

Sheppard eyed him, then nodded in the direction of the Confederate camp. “There’s a whole army who disagrees with you.”

“A whole army without half a brain between them,” Rodney snapped. This game was getting old.

Only Sheppard’s expression turned mulish, and Rodney realized, too late for polite society, that he’d been rude.

“Okay, fine, I didn’t mean _you._ Does that soothe your pretty-boy ego?”

“I’m neither pretty nor a boy,” Sheppard protested, and right, _boy_ meant _male slave or servant_ back in the day.

Rodney sighed. “I’m sorry. I just - I get it. This whole reenactment thing is supposed to make people realize that history is a living thing, means something now, and that it was lived by real people. So, no, I don’t think everyone who fought for the South was a slave-owning racist bastard. They were fighting for their families and their homes and their way of life. And - there’s something to that. There are some things the government should keep its damn nose out of, like - who you love. Who you marry.”

Sheppard offered his canteen to Rodney, who shook his head.

“But thank you.”

Sheppard shrugged, stoppered the top, and set it down. “Who do you love, then? That the government should leave you alone? A colored girl?”

No way was Rodney going to discuss his romantic and sexual preferences with a boy playing dress-up as the quintessential historical bigot.

“None of your business.”

Sheppard opened his small pack, drew out some jerky and hard tack biscuits. “Are you hungry?”

Rodney was, a little bit, but there was also no way he was eating any of that. “No, thank you. I’ll eat later.”

The rumbling of his stomach gave him away. Sheppard arched an eyebrow, held out a biscuit.

“Is there any citrus in it? I’m allergic to citrus.”

Sheppard huffed. “No. Haven’t seen an orange or lemon since - I don’t know when. Like a sailor. I’m lucky I haven’t been beset with scurvy.”

Rodney accepted a biscuit, nibbled it. Not bad. And he eyed Sheppard. “You don’t look like you have scurvy. Your teeth are fine.”

“Thanks,” Sheppard drawled. He sat down next to his pack and rifle, and after a moment, Rodney sat down beside him, because he felt like he was looming.

After a moment, Sheppard shifted his pack and rifle so Rodney could lean back against the same tree as him.

The way Sheppard gazed off into the distance, exhaustion writ into his frame, was - impressive. He hadn’t broken character a bit, not even once. Rodney could remember that intensity, that sensation of escape, when he fell into a character. Maybe - maybe what these reenactors did made some sense, after all. So Rodney decided he’d give it a try, play along. It wasn’t as if he’d ever see this Sheppard character ever again, whether it went well or badly. And Jeannie and Kaleb-with-a-K would never have to know.

“What are you fighting for then, Johnny Rebel Sheppard?”

“It’s just John, actually,” he said. “John Sheppard.”

It was such an ordinary-sounding name. “My name is Rodney McKay. Well, my first name is Meredith, but I prefer Rodney.”

Sheppard eyed him. “Meredith Rodney. I have a cousin named Meredith.” He pronounced it _Muh-REH-dith._ “We call him _Reddy.”_

Some people tried to call Rodney _Rod_ or, worse, _Roddy._ “Most people consider it a girl’s name.”

“And you’re definitely not a girl.”

“No, I’m not. And you dodged my question. What are _you_ fighting for?”

“I’ll tell you why if you tell me about your lady-love.”

“There’s no lady-love,” Rodney said. “I just meant - hypothetically. There are a lot of things the government should keep its nose out of.”

Sheppard didn’t look like he quite believed Rodney, but then he glanced toward the Confederate camp again, and his gaze turned distant once more. He really was a phenomenal actor, in all the little details. Rodney wondered what he did in real life.

“My father would never fight himself, and he intended to send Aiden.”

“Your brother?”

“The house boy. Same age as my brother Davey.”

Well, wasn’t that disgustingly noble, the son of a slave-owner fighting in a war so one of the family slaves wouldn’t have to. “And you didn’t want that?”

“No,” Sheppard said. “War is no place for -”

“A child?” Rodney asked.

Sheppard cut him a hard look. “I’m not a child.” And in that instant, he really wasn’t. Rodney had heard of that thousand-yard stare that soldiers had, and Sheppard had it.

How, Rodney didn’t know, because he really didn’t think that was something someone could fake. Maybe a really experienced, well-trained actor, but Sheppard hadn’t been lying when he said he was sixteen - though Rodney suspected he’d lied to someone else.

Or rather the person he was playing had lied to someone else.

How closely did these reenactors play to their characters? That one officer had said the ancestor he played had died at Gettysburg and he’d play dead at the appropriate time, but - what about those who called themselves _blanks?_ Did they just make it up as they went along?

And how far would they go? Because Sheppard had been none too gentle, slamming Rodney against the tree like that, at first.

Sheppard stared into the distance. “I don’t care for the Sheppard plantations or the slaves or the horses or the balls and cotillions. I don’t care for the money or the name. I just want to be - left alone. I want to be - me.”

“I get that,” Rodney said quietly. “I just want to be me, too. Except who I am is obnoxious and no one likes me. Partially because they don’t understand how brilliant I am. But mostly because I am obnoxious. Or they think I am. I’m just - me.”

“Is that why you don’t have a lady-love?”

Rodney said, very carefully, “If I did have a love, it wouldn’t be a lady.” And he realized - he’d never told anyone that before.

Sheppard whipped around to face him, and Rodney recoiled instinctively.

But Sheppard reached out, hand shaking, and curled his fingers around Rodney’s wrist, and he said, voice choked, “I thought I was the only one.”

Rodney knew the fear and pain in his voice, had wrestled with it himself before he finally realized that he was never going to be who or what people wanted and he had to stop giving a damn what other people wanted or he’d never be okay with himself, and this wasn’t a performance, it was something else, had crossed into the real, and maybe the only way for John Sheppard - or whatever his name was - to talk about something true, was to speak it through a mask.

“No,” Rodney said, and was surprised at his own gentleness. “You’re not the only one.”

What happened after that was inevitable. Sheppard leaned in, and his eyes fluttered closed, and Rodney closed his eyes, and their lips met. Sheppard’s mouth was warm and soft. Sheppard curled a hand tentatively at the nape of Rodney’s neck, and Rodney took that as permission to reach out and touch, and yes, Sheppard’s hair was as soft as it looked.

Rodney was pressed up against a tree again, but in the best way possible, because Sheppard crawled into his lap and framed Rodney’s face in his hands and leaned in and kissed him again and again and again. Rodney was fast dizzy from lack of oxygen and the rush of pleasure and heat in his body and blood. He clutched the rough, scratchy wool of Sheppard’s uniform jacket, dragging Sheppard in closer, and Sheppard pressed in, warm and lean and firm.

Finally they broke for air, panting. Sheppard rested his forehead against Rodney’s, grinning.

And then there were shouts, and Sheppard wrenched himself backward, scrambling for his pack and rifle.

“Wait,” Rodney said. “You can’t just kiss me and then -”

Sheppard kissed him again. “I have to.” He smoothed a hand over his hair, jammed on his cap.

“But - you could leave this place. Run away with me.” Rodney held Sheppard’s hand tightly. Give up the reenactment. Go somewhere and just be them, truly _them,_ and hopefully kiss some more (and maybe other things Rodney didn’t dare hope for).

“Yes,” Sheppard breathed. “But first, there’s something I must do.”

“Do? What?”

Sheppard reached into his little leather messenger satchel pouch thing, drew out a folded piece of paper. “These - these are important battle plans. I was supposed to deliver them from General Pickett to General Holmes. But I’m going to defect, give them over to the Yanks instead. If I follow the rest of the Virginians toward the Yankee battle lines, I can surrender - and pass on the information.”

Rodney stared at him. “Are you insane? You - General Pickett? You’ll be part of Pickett’s Charge. No. You’ll _die.”_

Sheppard’s brow furrowed. “That’s the cadence now. The General has ordered a charge. How did you know?”

And Rodney remembered. This was all a game. All make-believe. Pretend. “Okay. Fine. Come find me after. All right?”

“Stay right here,” Sheppard said. “I’ll be back for you, I promise.” He dug a pencil out of his satchel and wrote, in impressive fancy old-fashioned cursive, on the back of the folded paper, _For Meredith R. McKay._ “For me - and for you.” He pressed a kiss to the paper, tucked it away, and then he leaned in for one final, slow, soft, lingering kiss with Rodney. “Stay here, Meredith Rodney McKay.”

He scooped up the rest of his gear and headed toward the Union battle lines.

Moments later, Rodney heard the boom of cannon fire and the deafening cracks of rifle reports. He hoisted himself to his feet and saw hundreds of men in gray and sky blue charging toward the Union lines. Sheppard’s solitary figure - running out ahead - was soon swallowed up in them.

This was it. Pickett’s Charge.

Rodney would have to wait.

And so wait he did, listening to the noise and chaos. The actors were very dramatic with the way they played their deaths, toppling over from the rifle shots. Rodney thought he saw some explosions of red - blood - in the air. Squibs and colored corn syrup? That was taking it pretty far. Then the men (and women, Jeannie would remind him, women fought as well) would lie still in the grass, dead.

But not all of them.

Some played their deaths, then propped themselves up, lounging in the grass and watching the combat. They were the lazy ones, then.

Rodney had no hope of keeping track of Sheppard in the chaos, so he sat down and waited.

And waited.

The battle dragged on.

Rodney waited.

The battle faded, and the afternoon was wearing on, the shadows getting longer, and that one biscuit was in no way enough to stave off Rodney’s hunger.

But he wanted to wait for John, wanted -

“Mer!”

Jeannie crashed through the trees. “What are you doing, hiding here? I’ve been worried sick.” She grabbed his arm and started to tow him back toward the Union camps.

“Wait,” Rodney protested, but how would he explain to his sister - and Kaleb-with-a-K and everyone else watching them - that he had to stay here so he could meet back up with the really cute guy he’d made out with?

“I’m hungry, and Kaleb made arrangements for dinner,” Jeannie continued.

Once again, Rodney’s rumbling stomach betrayed him.

Jeannie towed him along, implacable, and he saw various groups of soldiers were sitting around campfires. It was a casual affair, Rebel soldiers mixed in with the Union soldiers, sharing food and drink and laughter. Apparently Kaleb-with-a-K’s tour group had secured an invitation to make camp with that Union officer from before, plus his assorted reenactor friends.

“My real name is Evan Lorne,” he said, and scooted out to make room around the fire. He had a tin mess kit balanced on one knee and was sewing a button onto a gray uniform jacket. “This is my roommate, Cam Mitchell.”

Cam was wearing the sky-blue trousers and gray shirt of a Rebel soldier and was presumably the owner of the jacket Evan was fixing. “Hello.”

Jeannie smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Mer wandered off. But we’re all here now. Thanks for letting us crash your camp.”

Cam raised his eyebrows at Rodney. _“Mare?”_

“It’s a pet name,” Rodney muttered, casting his sister a sharp look.

“Where did you wander off to? Your sister was worried,” Evan said.

“I made a friend,” Rodney offered. And then he realized - Cam was a Rebel reenactor. Maybe he could help Rodney reconnect with Sheppard. “With a Rebel guy who took part in Pickett’s Charge. We hung out until the charge and we were supposed to meet up after but I lost track of him.”

Conveniently, Cam perked up. “Oh yeah? What was his name?”

Rodney sat down tentatively beside Jeannie - and between her and Kaleb-with-a-K, because Grandma had sent him along to keep an eye on her. “I don’t know his real name. He was playing a soldier named John Sheppard.”

“That’s an awfully common name,” Kaleb-with-a-K said, unimpressed.

“He was from Virginia, if that helps.”

But Cam nodded. “Oh, yeah, sure. It’s not easy to find a kid to play John Sheppard every year, and a couple of times I did it, but I finally talked my little brother into coming along this year, so he did it.”

“You’re from North Carolina,” Evan said.

“Yeah, but - playing John Sheppard’s a big deal. Virginian or no.” Cam turned and hollered over his shoulder, “Hey, Ash, get over here. Found your pal.”

And then Rodney realized that this was a phenomenally bad idea. Cam was an actual Southerner. Even if his brother - Ash - had been willing to kiss Rodney when they were alone, no way was he going to acknowledge any of that out in the open, in front of his big brother and assorted friends and strangers.

“What pal?” The boy who pushed through the crowd and toward the fire looked like a younger, skinnier version of Cam.

And definitely wasn’t the boy Rodney had met.

Cam gestured to Rodney with his knife. “This guy. You were hanging out, before the big charge?”

Ash looked Rodney up and down. “Never met him in my life.”

Jeannie cast Rodney a look.

Cam turned to Rodney. “You said John Sheppard, right?”

“Yeah, but the John Sheppard I talked to was - he had dark hair. It was crazy fluffy and spiky, and - he had darker eyes. And - kinda pointy ears. Like an elf.” Rodney hunched his shoulders. “Maybe John Sheppard was his real name. I - wasn’t super clear on that.”

But Cam and Ash were staring at Rodney.

“Pointy ears, you say?” Cam gestured to his own ear.

Rodney nodded.

Cam glanced at Ash, and Ash reached into a little leather messenger satchel just like John had been wearing - and, okay, his uniform looked just like John’s - and drew out a black-and-white photograph.

Of John Sheppard.

“This him?” Ash asked.

Rodney nodded. “Yeah, that’s him. That the guy who played him last year or something?”

“No,” Ash said slowly. “That’s _him._ John Sheppard.”

Rodney blinked. That was him? The boy in the photograph was the boy Rodney had met, had talked to, had touched, had kissed? Impossible. “As in - the real John Sheppard.”

“Yeah,” Ash said. He glanced at his brother.

“The John Sheppard whose father had plantations and slaves and horses?”

Ash nodded again.

Rodney felt unease prickle down his spine. “The John Sheppard who lied about his age so he could fight instead of the house boy Aiden his father had planned on sending, Aiden who was the same age as his little brother David?”

Ash and Cam both nodded.

“Mer,” Jeannie said in a low voice, “how do you _know_ that?”

“Because - because I met him. I talked to him. In the trees where you found me. I wanted to get out of the sun and away from the noise and - he was there. We talked. He gave me one of his biscuits. He -”

“He died, in Pickett’s charge,” Cam said. “He was bringing some Rebel plans to give to the Yankee soldiers, to smooth the way for his defection. He was one of Pickett’s messengers, was supposed to take the plans to Holmes. He tried to surrender but in the chaos he was killed. Only after did they realize he was unarmed, that he’d been reaching into his messenger pouch for a white handkerchief - and the plans.”

“We always carry a copy of the plans.” Ash reached into his satchel once more. “Evan made ‘em up. He’s a pretty handy artist. Copied the creases and coffee stains and everything. Even the weird little note on the back.”

Rodney’s heart crawled into his throat. “Weird little note?”

Ash held out a familiar-looking piece of folded paper. “Yeah. _For Meredith R. McKay.”_

“Mer?” Jeannie asked. She clutched his wrist, looking spooked.

He swallowed hard. “Be rational, Jeannie. You’re a genius. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“What’s a coincidence?” Kaleb-with-a-K asked.

Jeannie said, “My brother’s name is Meredith Rodney McKay.”

“I prefer Rodney,” he said reflexively.

Cam, Ash, Evan, and Kaleb-with-a-K also looked spooked.

Evan leaned in, gaze intense. “You said you met John Sheppard over in the trees to the west?”

Rodney crossed his arms defensively. “He said his name was John Sheppard, and yes, he was over in the trees to the west. Where Jeannie found me.”

“And he looked like the boy in the photo?”

“Yes.”

“And he told you he was from Virginia, and that he was fighting in place of a slave named Aiden?”

“Yes.”

“And you told him your name?”

“Yes.” Rodney was admittedly very freaked out, and also unsettled by this interrogation. “Is this some kind of joke?” He eyed Cam and Ash warily. “That photo’s not real, is it?”

“It’s not a joke,” Cam said quietly. “We Mitchell boys laugh about a lot of things, but not this.”

Rodney glanced at Jeannie and Kaleb-with-a-K, and they both looked almost as freaked out as he felt. Jeannie was a genius, but she was no actress, not compared to Rodney, and Kaleb-with-a-K was about as guileless as a toddler.

“What else did he say to you?” Evan asked.

“He said he had a cousin named Meredith, only he pronounced it funny. Said they called him _Reddy_ for short.”

Cam and Ash looked at each other.

“Is that true?” Cam asked.

Ash shrugged. “Don’t know. Never researched that far.”

“We could look,” Cam said, more to himself and his brother than to anyone else.

“Why is it a big deal?” Rodney asked. “Who plays John Sheppard. He was just a kid. Who died.”

“He died passing over plans about Confederate plans to attack Helena and free up Vicksburg and reinforce the Southern hold on Arkansas. Plans that mattered.”

“He was a traitor to the Southern cause.” Rodney couldn’t quite read Cam’s expression.

“Yeah, but he was a brave young man who fought for what he believed in,” Cam said.

“So?” Rodney asked.

Cam said, “Sometimes, you have to fight for what you believe, and damn the consequences, even if it means your life.”

“This took a sudden turn for the philosophical,” Kaleb-with-a-K muttered.

Jeannie hushed him gently.

“What do you fight for? In real life?” Rodney asked.

“I fight for this country, and the ones I love,” Cam said.

Evan finished fixing the button on the Confederate jacket, knotted off the thread, cut the excess away with his knife. He held the jacket out to Cam. “Cam and I are roommates at the Air Force Academy.”

Cam reached for the jacket, tangled his fingers with Evan’s, held on for a moment. Then he said, “Thanks,” and shrugged the jacket on.

Rodney darted a glance at Ash, and Ash looked - pained. Sad. But fiercely proud of his brother.

Rodney leaned in and lowered his voice. “What about - what about Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?”

“As your sister and her friends have pointed out,” Cam said, his drawl deceptively easy and light, his expression grave, “you’re all Canadian. Who are you going to tell?”

“Fair point,” Rodney said.

Evan picked up the tin plate that had been resting on his knee. “What was he like? John Sheppard.”

Rodney stared into flames, which seemed to grow brighter and brighter as the sky grew darker and darker. “He was - barely old enough to drive. And he was tired. Hungry. Polite, all things being equal. And he was brave.”

Kaleb-with-a-K said, “We could all of us stand to be a little more brave.”

Cam and Evan exchanged glances. Ash reached out, squeezed his brother’s shoulder, and Cam smiled up at him.

 _Yes,_ Rodney thought. _We could. I could._

*

Rodney and Ash exchanged email addresses, and after the trip, Ash sent Rodney a scan of the photo of John Sheppard. Rodney got a print made, and he kept it in his wallet, and whenever he had to do something that terrified him - tell his parents to go to hell, tell Jeannie he supported her decision to leave academia and get married, ask a man out on a date - he’d study the photograph and take deep breaths and then take the plunge. Do it. As sure-footed and swift as John Sheppard had been, out on the field that day, running like he was leading the entire charge.

When the United States Air Force came calling, asked if Rodney wanted to work with them, he thought of Evan and Cam, wherever they were, probably not together but definitely fighting their hardest, and he said yes.

When the Air Force asked him to move to Nevada and work on the Stargate project, Rodney stared at the photo of John Sheppard for a long time, and then he said yes.

When the Air Force moved Rodney from Area 51 to Antarctica to work on the Ancient Outpost, he made sure the photo of John Sheppard was tucked into a safe place in his wallet, and he went. There were good days and bad, ups and downs, failures and successes - though more successes than failures, if Rodney did say so himself.

And then one day, Rodney was yelling at Scottish Doctor for accidentally firing a drone when his rant was cut off by the sound of the Control Chair coming to life and Eastern European Doctor saying, “Major, think about where we are in the universe,” and a familiar voice replying (familiar, but deeper with time, with age), “Did I do that?”

Rodney saw the hologram of the solar system in the air above the Chair, and then he saw the man in the Chair, and he said, “Yes, Major Evan Lorne, you did.”

When Elizabeth Weir asked Rodney if he wanted to be the Chief Science Officer for the Atlantis Expedition - possibly a one-way journey - Rodney didn’t even hesitate, though John Sheppard’s face flashed in his mind, and he accepted.

Evan volunteered to go along as well, as Gene on Deck for the scientists.

“What about Cam?” Rodney asked in a low voice, in the locker room beside Evan, where they stowed their gear between practice runs through the gate.

There was a picture in Evan’s locker, of Cam Mitchell standing beside a fighter jet, helmet tucked under his arm.

“When he gets back on his feet,” Evan said softly, “he’ll join us.”

On the day the Expedition was set to depart, Rodney was almost run ragged, organizing scientists and supplies. He didn’t see Evan at all, Evan who was wrangling Airmen and Marines. Finally, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the gate ramp, waiting for the wormhole to initialize.

“Let me guess,” Rodney said, low so only Evan could hear, “for Cameron Mitchell?”

“Always.” Evan cleared his throat. “Let me guess - For John Sheppard?”

“And for Meredith R. McKay.”

The wormhole whooshed into existence.

Evan said, “Let’s go be brave,” and stepped through the event horizon.

Rodney stepped through with him.


End file.
